


You Say They've All Left You Behind

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos wakes up with his head aching and a dull pain in his leg - and Aramis is there waiting. (Coda fic for 2x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say They've All Left You Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I wrote another aftermath fic for 2x03 because I am shipper trash. Ah, yes, what a surprise.

When Porthos wakes up late into the night, his head aching and his chest tight, the first thing he does is attempt to stretch out and sit up– but that just leaves him with a sharp hiss of pain at the sudden movement, as everything of the last few days comes slamming back into a pained focus. The muscles of his leg seize up and he stills, blinking up at the ceiling and gasping out in a stuttered pain. 

A hand presses to his chest, soothing, and if it were anyone else, he’d lash out, slam out, hit whoever dared to lay a hand on him – he’d choked Samara for upsetting his wound, an instinct after years of sleeping in back alleys, after years of light sleeping to keep from harm. But he knows this hand, knows it intimately well after so many wounds and injuries stitched back up again. And so he settles back down into his bed. “Aramis—”

“You need to rest,” Aramis says – and he knows it’s Aramis from his voice, from the lyrical cadence to his words. He knows Aramis from his touch. Knows Aramis from the small breath of air he exhales after his lilting words, as if it is a physical relief to be able to speak to him again. He sounds happier today than he has in ages and Porthos opens his eyes, pain-bruised, and turns to look at him. 

“What happened?” he asks and drinks in Aramis’ face as it swims into focus. 

“You passed out while I was stitching you up. You’ve been sleeping the rest of the afternoon,” Aramis says and Porthos just looks him over. Aramis smiles at him, light and almost playful. He’s stripped down to his shirtsleeves, and the queen’s cross hangs loose around his neck, resting against his open palm. Aramis is running his thumb over the ridges of the intricate gold absently, a nervous but settled gesture. Something like a rosary, a dispatcher of his prayers and his relief – but Aramis has always found comfort and love in God, and Porthos has always envied him that solace, in a way. Now, it is a relief to know that Aramis can find some semblance of peace. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, not entirely sure why he asks it. 

Aramis’ smile lilts up and, for once in so long, it reaches his eyes. He drops his hands down so that they rest against Porthos’ bedside, his fingers curling over the blanket and smoothing out some of the wrinkles. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I’m alright. You’re awake.” 

There’s more to it, Porthos knows, but he knows better than to press Aramis before he’s ready – and seeing him in such a good mood is something he’s not willing to chase away just yet. He looks at Aramis – his hair a mess, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, legs splayed in an easy manner as he sits in a chair beside Porthos’ bed. His hat sits on the little table next to his bed, and Porthos also spies his pistol, the intricate leafwork of the metal, as well as Porthos’ new book of poetry, given to him by Samara – which, too, he realizes, has leafwork curving along its spine. 

“Did you knock me out?” Porthos asks, voice slow.

“No, no, I’m afraid you accomplished that all on your own. Athos and I weren’t eager to give your pretty head another lump just yet.” Aramis’ words are teasing, but there’s a harder edge to the words now, and it betrays Aramis’ lingering concern for him.

Porthos breathes out and smiles at him, and sits up with Aramis’ assistance. 

“So, why you here?”

“I wanted to be here when you woke up,” Aramis admits. He twists his hands up and for the first time looks more nervous than elated. “I wanted to apologize – this is all my fault.” 

Porthos snorts, dismissive at once. “Rubbish.”

“I mean it,” Aramis insists, but Porthos is already shaking his head again, reaching out to grasp Aramis’ shoulder, squeezing down, his finger splayed out across his shoulder. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. Athos told me what happened – Tariq was in the way. It was a crowded square. I’m _alright_ , so it worked out. This isn’t the worst that I’ve suffered on the battlefield.” 

“Yes, but you don’t often make a habit of being abducted,” Aramis insists, and grasps at Porthos’ wrist before he can draw it back from Aramis’ shoulder. “Porthos. I feel responsible for it. In that moment, I—”

Whatever explanation Aramis is going to give him trails off and instead Aramis shakes his head, squeezing his wrist again. His hold is light and gentled, but protective. That, to Porthos, has always been Aramis: mild and gentle, but fiercely protective. There has never been a time where Porthos doubted Aramis’ protection. 

Porthos regards him, and then lifts his arm out, holding it out towards Aramis in a gesture of welcome. “Come here.” 

Aramis blinks at him, but then stands from the chair, releasing his wrist so that he can climb onto the bed, lets Porthos fold him into a hug. Porthos cups the back of his head, fingers brushing at his hair once, and the other arm wraps tight around him, holding him close. 

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Aramis whispers.

“Lucky you don’t have to. Lucky I’ve got you to look after me,” Porthos agrees, tightens his hold on him because the idea of losing Aramis isn’t a particularly pleasant thought, either. Aramis says nothing, and if anything, his silence grows more weighted. Before he can question it, though, Aramis merely sighs out against Porthos’ shoulder and presses closer. 

They stay like that for a long moment, neither moving nor speaking. Porthos settles, feels himself breathe out slowly as he pulls Aramis in closer – comforted in just being able to hold him, in knowing that he is alive and that Aramis is here with him. He feels the steady breath against his neck, knows that Aramis is calmed if only by this hold. There’s a comfort there, in being able to settle Aramis. 

But it’s Aramis who pulls back, always pulls back. He doesn’t return to his chair, at least, but instead settles down into the little pocket of space beside Porthos that keeps him on the bed. With some effort, Porthos shifts so that Aramis can stretch out comfortably beside him. They sit like that for a long moment, still neither speaking. There’s always been a level in which neither of them need to speak. They’ve known one another for years and have spent many of those years understanding the other, not needing to speak in order to communicate. Aramis is perhaps the closest friend he’s known in his life, especially after leaving the Court. There is comfort enough in just having Aramis close – it’s always been that way for Porthos. No matter how far he drifts, no matter how he feels like he’s drowning, it is always Aramis who draws him back out again. 

Aramis is looking at him now, his face like an open wound, a painful drag of longing there. For all of Aramis’ attempts, Porthos has always been able to read him, even if he can’t always understand the source of the emotions he sees. He smiles at Aramis, lifts his hand and pushes the hair back from his face. 

“I’m alright,” he repeats. “I’m safe.” 

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, and his voice is a wisp of breath. He’s a little hunched over, and he fidgets with his fingertips, hands twisting together – but his brow is furrowed and he’s looking just at him. 

Porthos shifts, bumping his shoulders to his and it draws out the tiniest of laughs from Aramis, his lips quirking up. 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis blinks once, twice, and then breathes out. He rubs at his eyes, drops his hand and fidgets with the queen’s cross, and then looks up at Porthos again. 

“I’m,” Aramis begins. He licks his lips. He looks down. He fidgets. 

Porthos waits. 

Aramis turns his face down slightly, breathing out. “I’m tired of not having the things that I want. There’s…”

Porthos waits more, not interrupting – unsure just what it is that Aramis isn’t telling him. But then Aramis takes up his hand in his, and his palm is clammed up but not unpleasantly so. He twists their fingers together so they’re interlaced. Porthos blinks once but can’t even feel true surprise at the gesture – it feels, in a way, that it has always been this way, that it should have always been this way. 

He looks up at Aramis. 

But Aramis is turned away from him, picking up the little book of poetry that Samara gifted him. His smile is soft and gentled, a painful longing and Porthos almost opens his mouth to say that he isn’t in love with her, that it isn’t like that. But he knows it isn’t necessary. He knows that Aramis must know, knows that Aramis can’t help the sparks of jealousy that flare up in his eyes.

They aren’t even together, Porthos realizes dimly. Somehow, for all their years, it never stumbled into that territory – despite the realization, now, that they must have felt the same for so long. For all Aramis’ teasing to Porthos about how he doesn’t understand romance, doesn’t understand women, doesn’t understand love – always teasing, always smiling – he realizes in a kind of painful lurch that he has somehow failed to notice something that, now, is so obvious. 

He looks down at their hands as Aramis turns back towards them, the book snug between his fingertips. 

“Read to me?” Aramis asks, quiet. 

“It’s in Arabic,” Porthos says, and reaches for it. He thumbs open the cover and leafs through the pages – all the long, beautiful scrawls of Arabic stretched out. He thinks of Samara, hopes her journey to Morocco will be a successful one, hopes she will find what she’s looking for. 

Hopes that she’ll find her home. He looks up at Aramis, finds Aramis looking at him with that same hesitating gentleness. He wants to lean in to kiss him but he’s unsure if it’s the right decision to do so. He looks at Aramis and Aramis watches him back, his eyes dark and soft. 

He looks back down at the poems, his fingertip – far too large and thick for something as delicate and beautiful as the lines of the language – tracing down along the words there. 

And then he turns the page and he sees French words written out gently beneath each line and he realizes he must be looking at Samara’s script, must be looking at Samara’s translation. He recognizes the poem for what it is and the corners of his eyes crinkle up with his fond smile. 

“From his light,” he recites. “the niche of my essence enlightened me; by means of me, my nights blazed morning bright.” 

He fumbles through the words, uncertain, glancing up at Aramis for signs of his disapprove or approval – and Aramis is looking at him with an openness that nearly steals his breath. Aramis lifts his free hand, the one still holding his hand secured there, tightening. His free hand touches at Porthos’ face, traces along the straight line of his scar and then shifts back into his hair, his fingers tangling there. 

Porthos thinks of Samara in that moment – her insistence that he’ll never truly belong, that his country and his friends will betray him. He looks at Aramis now, watching him with an open, raw kind of love – jagged around the edges and wrenching deep down into the twist of his stomach. And he knows where he belongs. He knows who he is and what he is – and he knows just where he belongs. 

His breath goes a little quieter as he gets to the second stanza, breathes it out: “I made me witness my being there—”

He looks at Aramis. 

“For I was he.” 

Aramis smiles, and his eyes seem to light up from the inside out. 

“I witnessed him as me—”

Aramis’ eyes trace along his face and Porthos doesn’t need to read the line for this next part – just looks at him with what he hopes is understanding, hopes to convey that he _understands_. 

“The light, my splendor.” 

There’s more to the poem, more that he’s eager to hear – eager to read out Samara’s translation – but instead he’s looking at Aramis and Aramis is looking at him. There’s a hand in his hair and the other is grasping his own, holding tight, fingers laced together and holding firm. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, his voice small but it feels louder, it’s enough to plummet his heart down into his stomach. He can’t breathe for a moment, just looking at him – just wanting to drink him in, to take him all in, to watch the way his eyes go bright and then darken watching him. 

“Did you really think you’d lose me?” Porthos asks and it isn’t what he wants to ask – what he wants to ask is, _do you really feel as I do_ but he isn’t sure if it’s best to just come out and say it. The words tumble out of him and for all his enjoyment of poetry, for all his interest in learning to read and to write and to the words themselves, he’s always felt himself fumbling with the need to _speak_ to Aramis. 

“I failed you,” Aramis says and continues before Porthos can interrupt, Aramis shaking his head fiercely, “I would never have forgiven myself if I’d lost you. I’m – I’m tired of losing everything. I’m tired of losing the things I can never have. I’m – Porthos. I’m tired with wanting.” 

There’s so much heat and weight to the words and Porthos can’t even place it, can’t even understand it – he thinks of Isabelle, perhaps, and knows how long his heart dragged down for her, how much it hurt to lose her only after finding her again. He sets his book aside and reaches for him, pulls him in close so that Aramis tucks up to his side. Aramis looks up at him – that open-faced longing turning the corners of his face downward, an eternal sadness. 

“You could never fail me,” Porthos whispers out fiercely. “You’re my family.” 

Aramis makes a soft, abortive sound – and then lurches forward and kisses him, the hand in his hair twisting almost painfully, protective – almost possessive. And Porthos melts at the touch, his breath hitching once before he’s kissing him back, just as fierce, just as swept away by that _need_. There’s a low level of burning that starts in his heart and spreads outwards and he feels warmed, feels needed – feels loved. It sparks to life and flares outward and he folds Aramis into him, pulling him in close. 

“Don’t leave me,” Aramis whimpers against his mouth as he kisses him, frames his face between trembling hands and presses close to him. He kisses him like a drowning man, kisses him like it will be the last. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Porthos agrees, slides his hands up his back and pulls him down against him, anchors him down against him. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis whispers out against the kiss, and there’s the breathless hitch of a sob that lodges to the back of his throat that he refuses to let out. Porthos shifts, cups his face in turn, thumbs pressing to his cheeks and then swiping along the underside of his eyes, searching for any tears to banish away. There are none yet but his voice is watery, wobbling a little as he just keeps kissing him – again and again, as if he’ll never stop. Porthos doesn’t particularly want him to. 

“You said it yourself,” Porthos whispers as he bites once at his lip and then draws back enough to breathe, to blink his eyes open and look at him, his expression soft and lax. “You’ve got me.” 

The tears do well up now and Aramis clenches his eyes shut and makes a soft whimpering sound before he moves close to him again, kisses him with everything he has. 

“I’ve got you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
